


myxomatosis

by stight



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: this is kinda weird fhskf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-19 00:07:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17591036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stight/pseuds/stight
Summary: max is dreaming, and then he wakes up from a dream.





	myxomatosis

**Author's Note:**

> this was a part of a dbd prompt, “the stars disappeared”!! hope u enjoy :o)

“You see each one of them stars in the sky?

 

Each one of ‘um’s a person, Junior. Each one of ‘um’s a person that ain’t been born yet.”

 

His voice is kind. His face is kinder; his smile stretches from one ear to the other, just like in the picture book Max has perused so many times before. There’s only one. There’s only one picture book in Max’s life, and in it the family’s eyes are little black specks on pale skin. That’s what he has now, the big smiling faces, but his skin is inky black. A sil-oh-et. Sil-oh-et. Is that a word? He’s heard it before. He’s heard it through the wall. _I can see his sil-oh-et, Evelyn_. But that’s not what he’s saying now; he and Max are smiling now, and they’ve got a pitcher of something acrid and strong between them. Moon-shine. The moon is shining now, yes indeed. He’s seen it through the window. It’s big and it’s white and there’s holes in it, and sometimes there’s not much of it at all. What color is the grass? The grass is green, silly, apart from in the dark when it’s black. Is it sharp? Does it hurt? Can he eat it? No, Max, don’t eat the grass. You don’t belong here. Don’t eat what isn’t yours, Max. But the out-side belongs to who? He’s seen sil-oh-ets outside before, but he’s seen cows more often. They talk funny. They aren’t people at all, really. Maybe the night belongs to the sil-oh-ets. The cows can have the day. They aren’t out-side at night. What does Max get? Well, night and day are the only ones, he thinks. Maybe he can just have his little room, and the food that belongs to him. And that’s alright, he thinks. No, bad, Max. It’s not. It’s not? Really? It isn’t. What’s yours isn’t really yours, Max, and what’s the cows isn’t really the cow’s. The cows can’t have the day, because the cows belong to the sil-oh-ets and the cows can’t argue. That’s why he’s a little like the cows, because they both belong to the sil-oh-ets and they’re both fed by the sil-oh-ets and maybe the sil-oh-ets are the only things in both of their lives that matter.

 

But who do the stars belong to?

 

“You can have the stars, Junior.”

 

He’s allowed the stars. The stars are his. But then; the stars are people? He has people? He’s confused. What about the cows, what are the cows? Are the cows stars? Can he have the cows, and if so, what does that mean? The- the sil-oh-ets are people, does he get them? But he belongs to the sil-oh-ets. This isn’t right, this is strange, but he doesn’t question it. Sometimes, he thinks, things are confusing but there’s a lot of things that Max will never comprehend. Com-pre-hend, he likes that word, he likes turning it over and over in his head like a thing. Lots of different things; he’s counting all of them in his head, without numbers. The moon. The grass. The sil-oh-et and the moonshine. The sil-oh-et sits leaned against palms and legs out straight and so Max decides to copy. It’s a good idea to copy, really, because if he goes off on his own it’s very bad. He can’t describe why it’s bad, but if he’s been told it’s bad, that’s that. Being told exactly what to do is even better because that means it can’t be bad, but it doesn’t happen often because there’s not much to do for Max. Then again, well, being bored is better than being bad and feeling bad and being in the dark and feeling foodless. 

 

“Do you not want the stars, Junior?”

 

Oh, yes, he wants the stars very much. The stars are a little like his picture book; if he looks real close he can see the resemblance in the people’s eyes. They both belong to him. Little dots. Little eyes. Black eyes. Where are the black stars, he thinks? Well, that’s the same as asking where the blue cows are, or the other picture books. There are none. Blue stars. Where do the stars go at day? Have they disappeared? Will you stop asking questions, Max? WHERE HAVE THE FUCKING STARS GONE? Where have they gone? Stop questioning, Max. Stop questioning, Max.

 

It’s daytime, Max, there’s no more stars. The sil-oh-et’s skin is peeling off and dripping around its feet. It’s not smiling anymore; oh, no, has he been bad? He’s been so fucking bad, Max. He’s been so fucking bad; please ask for mercy, Max, the stars have done down. You’re bad, now. Do you possibly think they’ll ever belong to you, Max? You are delusional. Max, you are going to be stuck in this fucking room forever, Max, you’re going to rot in here and the rats will turn away from you because you’re fucking disgusting to look at, Max, you’re a God-damned monster, God-damned, damned to all Hells on earth and not on earth, you’re going to die, put the chainsaw down, Junior, put the chainsaw down, the stars— I’ll give you the stars, and then you’re going to let me go, Junior, you can have the stars, you can have the cows, but you can’t have me, Junior, you can’t have me.

 

Be quiet, Max thinks! You are so loud, he thinks! At least the cows are quiet, he thinks. If they didn’t speak before they most certainly wouldn’t speak now. Tongue-tied. Their tongues are lolling out of their mouths. Max has only seen flies inside of his room before, around bad food, because there’s been lots of that, but now they’re screaming around his ears for no reason at all. Cows aren’t food, and they most certainly aren’t bad food. Why are they screaming? And what are they screaming for? Max is scared, he’s so scared and there’s so much blood and it’s so loud and no matter how much he swings the flies won’t go away. A cow gives a wail and he knows he can make that quiet, so he does. He hasn’t cried this hard since he was a baby. He wants his room and his silence and his bad food and his bad manners back. It doesn’t matter to Max if they belong to them or if they don’t belong to him, if they’re blue or black or white or eyes or picture books or people, if there’s no more people on earth or if they’ve disappeared. He wants the stars back.


End file.
